The Other Woman
by JenniGellerBing
Summary: He was married and it was wrong, they both knew, but a lot of things in their lives had been wrong and one more wrong thing just didn’t seem like it would change much.  GWHP


She didn't mind being the other woman.

Not at first, at least. At first it had been fun, and deliciously wrong, and overwhelmingly right. Because he'd left her when she was fifteen to go off and save the world, and she'd never fully gotten over it. They'd both gone off and had other lovers and eventually marriages; his survived the wretched aftermath of war and came out on the other side fragile at best, and hers crumbled quickly.

They had always stayed in friendly contact, having had an amiable break-up, and when business brought them both to Paris nearly ten years after their first date, they found familiar comfort in a strange town over several bottles of wine. When they got outside and found that it had begun to rain, it seemed only natural to go home to the same hotel room.

He was married and it was wrong, they both knew, but a lot of things in their lives had been wrong and one more wrong thing just didn't seem like it would change much. It was hot and it was new, and in a way it was old too, ten years old and wounds that had never healed and needs that had never been met.

It seemed at first that they might leave France in France, but when an owl arrived at her flat with a time and a place and no signature, she couldn't help but be there.

"Are you sure?" she breathed, because she sure as hell wasn't and if he wasn't also then it just might be perfect.

"Always," he asked, and then they didn't talk much more for a while.

At first, it was fun and thrilling; it was dangerous and exciting, because they couldn't tell anyone and they couldn't be seen together. It was late nights in Muggle hotels and long lunch breaks at her flat and something real, something that finally felt right after years of war and loss and heartache.

But eventually it got tiring, she realized, being the other woman. Because eventually not telling anyone became explaining why she wasn't dating anyone, and not being seen together became more of a nuisance than a thrill. And at family functions – because they were nearly family, weren't they, according to many – she had to watch him with the person _she_ considered to be the other woman, but that wasn't really right at all and she knew it.

Eventually stolen kisses lost their glamour and the bed just felt too cold in the morning. But ending a relationship that wasn't a relationship was harder than it sounds, and a lot of years and a lot of hurt all boiled down, in the end, to something that wasn't ever completely real to begin with.

And between all of it, she couldn't stop herself one night as they lay in bed – just an hour before he had to be home – and leaned in very close and whispered in his ear, "Do you love me?"

She regretted it in the silence that followed, long and heavy, and finally she let out a choked sob and pulled away, her face flushing and her chest tight. He lay perfectly still while she stared at the ceiling and willed away tears, pulling the blanket up to her neck and feeling dirty and sick.

"I can't answer that," he said finally.

"It was stupid to ask," she whispered miserably, cramming her fists into her eyes and swallowing hard. "I shouldn't have done it."

"I just – you know I can't," he continued, his voice strained.

"Then don't," she said sharply. She rolled away from him. "I don't want to hear it either way. Just leave, please. You've got to go home to your wife anyway. Good night."

He didn't move for a while, but finally he dressed and left without a word. She felt fifteen again and cried until she fell asleep. When he owled her two days later asking if she wanted to meet up to talk, she ignored it and went numbly about her business, returning home to a flat that had always been empty, wishing things were different.

But it was Christmas coming up and going home for Christmas was going home to the same place for both of them. The silence and the pain between them was nearly tangible, and she found herself fleeing to her old bedroom and staring out the window, her face wet with tears for the boy downstairs cheerfully exchanging gifts with his wife.

Her mother arrived and quietly said, "So you've ended it, then?"

She inhaled sharply and hissed, "How did you - ?"

"I haven't told anyone," her mother replied. "And I don't think anyone else figured it out." She took a step closer to her daughter and put her arm around her. "It'll be better off this way, dear."

"It was right for a while, you know," she mumbled. "It hasn't been right for a long time, but for a while I thought – I thought things would be good."

"It might never be good, but it'll be better," her mother whispered, holding her daughter close.

And she was right, after a while. It still hurt when she thought about it, but she tried not to think about it very much, and so things were better. One night she invited another man home, thinking it might help dull the pain, and it might have – she never found out, because there was a knock on the door before they had even finished their first drink.

And then suddenly, inexplicably, there he was, staring into her flat at the other man – _how did he like _thatshe wondered a bit triumphantly, _the other man_ – and she stammered, "What are you doing here?"

He blinked, looking hopelessly lost for a moment, and then his eyes hardened. "Nothing. Sorry to interrupt."

She stared at the spot he'd only just occupied so long that the other man awkwardly said he had somewhere to be, and she let him go. The bed was cold again and she couldn't help wondering w_hat if?_

The next time she saw him he was sitting alone on a barstool in the Leaky Cauldron, two empty mugs in front of him at four in the afternoon. She thought she might be able to sneak by but he looked up and raised a weary hand.

She smiled tightly and sat down next to him. "Firewhiskey," she said to the bartender. They sat in silence for a while before she said, "So, how have things been?"

"Fine," he said, nodding.

"Great. Same here."

"Really bad, actually," he said, dropping his head into his hands. "Listen, I've – we've got to talk about – that night, I didn't – "

"No, really, it's all right," she interrupted. "You don't have to explain."

"I'd like to, though," he insisted.

"No, really." She stood up, her mind spinning. She couldn't get into this again, she just couldn't. "I've got to go." She turned blindly and left the Leaky Cauldron, refusing to look back.

"Wait – please," he said, catching up with her outside the door. He grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around to face him. "I didn't want to tell you because – because well, I _do_, all right? I _do_… love you. But I couldn't tell you because it wouldn't change anything, so I didn't, but I just – I had to, now, in the end."

"Are you still married?" she asked calmly.

He looked taken aback. "Well – yes, I suppose I am."

"Then I still have to go," she said. She wrenched her elbow away and her chest ached so terribly she thought it might burst. "If you ever want to make me anything but the other woman, then maybe we'll talk."

And she walked away, and it wasn't right, but it hadn't ever been right in the first place, anyway.


End file.
